


this wasn't supposed to be a love song (but i guess it is now)

by breakeven



Series: heavy metal heart [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1990s, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Artist Steve Rogers, Daddy Kink, Declarations Of Love, Domestic Fluff, Drinking, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Punk Steve Rogers, Recreational Drug Use, my son - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-01
Updated: 2019-08-01
Packaged: 2020-07-28 11:23:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20063209
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breakeven/pseuds/breakeven
Summary: Steve is literally and actually in love. He can't believe this shit.





	this wasn't supposed to be a love song (but i guess it is now)

**Author's Note:**

> title from "jonny" by faye webster
> 
> this is set maybe three months after the first piece. tbh i only wrote this little blurb because it's taking me forever to finish to BIG sequel. i don't even know how I kept it under 10k. sorry if this is shitty or weird, i really haven't been doing anything fandom related for the past three years and i'm only back to process my post-endgame feelings tbh.

Sometimes Steve forgets that he’s supposed to be cool and edgy, aloof and absolutely unaffected by all of the sappy emotional shit that everyone else is plagued by. He watches Bucky and Natasha in the morning—the way they move with each other with gentle hands placed on hips, private smiles, and soft laughter as they go about making coffee for the entire house—and he’s both endeared and slightly disgusted. It’s weird, seeing his best friend all strung out on love because it makes him different and it makes him ridiculous, it always has. Steve staunchly refuses to be that person, but it’s often hard to remember because of Tony.

Steve isn’t a sap by any means, very rarely gets caught in the trappings of sentimental values, but there’s always been something about Tony that brings it out of him. Tony will lay in Steve’s bed, under the ratty comforter that will always smell like acrylic paints and weed, and he’ll just look up at Steve with those big, brown eyes and something in Steve’s chest will be knocked loose. Steve will get lost in him, breathe in the sweet, heady scent of Tony’s cologne, run his fingers over Tony’s smooth, tan skin. The world narrows to the tiny pinpoint of space that Steve is sharing with Tony and nothing exists outside of them. It would be amazing if it weren’t totally embarrassing. Or worse yet, they’ll be in the penthouse lying next to each other in the dark and Tony will be talking about the stars that they can’t see due to light pollution, and his voice will take this beautiful low timbre so that Steve can _feel_ him speaking more than hear him and the vibrations warm Steve’s insides like a fucking microwave. It’s sickening, really.

“I can’t stop gazing lovingly at him,” Steve whines to Sam one night. They’re sharing a bowl, for once the only two people awake in the house, and somehow Steve has managed to steer the conversation towards Tony Territory (again). Sam had rolled his eyes good naturedly and buckled in for the stoned ramblings though, so Steve considers it blanket permission to go full steam ahead.

“It’s almost like you love him,” Sam scoffs, holding the lighter out to light the bowl for Steve. His friends are really sweet when they want to be.

“It’s not almost like,” Steve says around his mouthful of smoke, “I definitely do. It’s just…weird is all.”

There’s a lull during which Sam takes his own hit, and then, “Yeah it is. You don’t even gaze lovingly at Bucky.”

“For obvious reasons.”

“It’s cute though,” Sam shrugs, passes Steve the pipe and lights the bowl for him again. It’s nice and easy, sitting in the living room and chatting with Sam like this. Lucky has even been let out of Clint’s room for the time being and he’s sitting under the coffee table like a good boy, sleeping peacefully. It’s a Sade kind of night and she croons softly to them while Steve sits and wallows in his own love induced misery. It’s not even like he doesn’t want to be in love with Tony or anything, because Tony’s a great boyfriend and everything is rainbows and sunshine between them at the moment, it’s just that this is super weird. Steve is pretty sure he’s not the kind of guy you settle down with, especially if you come from old money and run a series of successful businesses across the country. He’s positive Tony is completely out of his league and it feels almost selfish to keep him for himself, to have and to hold a man so gorgeous and perfect while people like Pepper Potts and Sam Wilson are single.

“First of all, this is your pity party, not mine,--” Sam begins, just as the front door is thrown open. It shakes on its hinges, the knob makes a small dent in the wall behind it, and Clint emerges from the shadows and tumbles into the house. Sam lets out and indignant scream and Steve jumps about ten feet in the air.

“Fuck me,” Clint groans, lowering himself onto the ground and sprawling on his back. He kicks the door shut and toes off his Adidas and just lies there breathing heavily. Steve looks over at Sam, whose eyes have gone pinched and tired like he wants to say something mean but knows it isn’t worth it, so Steve just hands him the pipe. It’s incredible how much marijuana can fix when applied in the right doses.

“Anyway: your pity party, not mine. I don’t mind being single. And I know when I eventually am in a relationship with an intelligent young woman I’ll have the emotional wherewithal to enjoy being in love with her instead of doing whatever it is you’re doing.”

“Fucking rude, I have emotional wherewithal.”

At this, Lucky opens his one eye and peers over at the two of them judgmentally. Steve’s face goes red in rage, because what the fuck does Clint’s dog know, and Sam sputters out a laugh, “That’s just pitiful,” he giggles helpfully. When the pipe is back in Steve’s hand he smokes the rest of the bowl with no consideration for Sam whatsoever, and then quietly stomps up the stairs to his room.

Which, by the way, is filled to the fucking brim with trinkets and knick knacks and goddamn drawings that belong to or are associated with Tony in some way. It’s like all 10X14 square feet of the place is a shrine to Tony Stark and it’s just _embarrassing_ because Steve has never been like this. What if it’s too much? What if he’s being completely weird and Tony gets uncomfortable and bolts? What if Steve gets way in over his head and when this does end, when Tony does really say goodbye Steve is never the same? That would be the absolute worst. Steve dejectedly crawls under his covers and buries his face in his pillow, the one that he sleeps on himself, the one that doesn’t smell like Tony’s expensive aftershave, and sinks into a dreamless sleep.

*

When Steve wakes up the next morning, it’s surprisingly peaceful. There’s no Motley Crue blaring from any speakers, Steve can’t smell any gas leaking from anywhere, and when he looks out of his window and towards the street both Sam and Bucky’s cars are still parked, which means they’re both home but neither one of them is yelling. It’s unsettling to say the least, and while Steve pulls on a shirt and his glasses he runs through a series of probable scenarios to explain the state of his home. He pokes his head around his doorframe and looks down the hall, but every door is shut. He considers the possibility that Natasha stayed the night and therefore Bucky is distracted but then Steve notices a jar of mayo is still sitting at the top of the stairs and there’s an electric razor still buzzing on the bathroom sink, so he doubts that’s the case. Natasha would never allow this bullshit on her watch. Steve brushes his teeth with the door open so he can still hear a little bit, just in case his roommate are preparing some sort of stealth operation. If he lived anywhere else this would be called “paranoia”, but here it’s simply taking necessary precautions. Nothing happens though.

So Steve makes his way downstairs, and still no sign of anyone else. The living room is left relatively tidy, like Sam attempted to straighten up before retiring for the evening, and Clint’s shoes are still directly in front of the door, but there’s no sign of him. In the kitchen there are three empty boxes of cereal and one of those plates shaped like an animal’s face with donuts stacked on top of it, a pleasant surprise that could turn deadly if not properly assessed. Steve opens the fridge, his head tilted so that his good ear can get some action.

“What the fuckening fuck is going on here?” he mutters to himself when he finds _fruits_ of all things in a drawer. There aren’t even any dishes in the sink. His skin is crawling.

“They’re all gone,” a voice says suddenly from behind the refrigerator door. Steve, with a carton of orange juice in one hand a bottle of Corona in the other, turns and immediately tries to brandish the beverages as a weapon. Except it’s just Tony. Tony in a pair of _sweatpants_ and a comfortable looking sweater and running shoes. His hair isn’t gelled either, and it’s making something uncomfortable and happy stir in the pit of Steve’s stomach. He wants to run his fingers through that stupid untamed mess and count the grey hairs he can find at Tony’s temples. They already spend so much time cuddled up together that he’s managed to count the ones in Tony’s beard, it’s only right that he get a start on his head. Steve craves the sweet relief of blunt force trauma to the head.

“Why?” Steve asks.

“I just… asked,” Tony shrugs, “I thought you’d wanna take a day,” he tells Steve, moving to take the drinks from his hands and sit them on the counter and invade Steve’s personal space. Steve would never admit it but he feels slightly nervous then, like he should run away from how much he wants to just sink into Tony’s arms and have his space invaded for hours, preferably naked and stoned. Tony is so right; Steve would love to just take a day, after all it had been a long few weeks of doctor’s appointments and changing medications for Steve after a relatively scary bout of the flu. And his mother had been so worried, dropping by so often that he’d had to hide the weed and paraphernalia in his room and Bucky had even _shaved_, and it was all very stressful, as one could imagine. Tony could imagine, obviously, because it’s not like Steve had told him how stretched thin and anxious he had been feeling, but his boyfriend just knew. Because Tony knew him better than anyone, maybe even better than Sam and Bucky. In just a year he had managed to dig himself a home in the deep, empty parts of Steve and set up shop. Hell, he’d started making repairs. Steve loved him and feared him for all of the power that he held.

“I…thanks,” Steve says, wrapping his arms around Tony’s neck and pulling so that his boyfriend would catch the hint and lift him off the ground. Steve secretly loved being picked up and placed about by Tony’s hands, and Tony knew that, but he kept it a secret just the same. He would never do it in front of any of Steve’s friends, or poke fun at Steve for it, because that’s just how Tony was. He just _did_ things because Steve liked them and he didn’t really expect much in return. It was weird, Steve didn’t know what to do with it.

“Of course,” Tony murmurs. His hands find Steve’s waist, holding him right about the band of Steve’s boxers, and his fingers draw a soft pattern on the ridge of Steve’s hipbone. It’s relaxing and comfortable, and they just stand there in the kitchen and hug for a while because they can. It feels better to do this here, in the brownstone, than in the penthouse. Tony doesn’t even really like it there, and if Steve is honest there’s nothing particularly relaxing about the island of Manhattan.

They make their way to the couch eventually, Tony depositing Steve on one end and standing to gather a number of supplies, including but not limited to: the silicone bong Bucky keeps hidden in one of the drawers of the coffee table, the Corona and orange juice from the kitchen, and a huge family sized bag of kettle cooked salt and vinegar chips that he opens and presents to Steve with a flourish. It’s so sweet and so simple; it’s not like any of these things are particularly expensive or hard to find, it’s not like Steve couldn’t have locked himself in his room for the entire day and watched Mighty Morphin’ all day, but the fact that Tony thought to gather it all for him makes the gesture so special. He knew Steve didn’t want a fancy dinner at some restaurant in SoHo, or a shopping spree in Paris or anything even close. He knew that Steve would feel better if he could just get high and feel comfortable in his skin for once, receiving kisses for his hard work and dedication to the art of laziness. Steve clenches his fists and fights back what feels like the urge to cry tears of joy.

“I brought _Scream_ too,” Tony tells him, waving the DVD in Steve’s face before going to pop it into the console. Steve looks up at him and smiles, a big easy smile that takes up most of his face.

“Do you want the first hit?” he asks dreamily, laying on the romance.

Tony chuckles lowly and sits down next to Steve before pulling Steve’s bony feet into his lap. He produces a lighter from his pocket as well, and twists off the cap of the Corona, “No baby, you go ahead,” and presses play. Steve is so in love he can hardly breathe.

*

Steve’s roommates don’t make their return until late afternoon. Bucky, Natasha, Sam, and Clint pour into the foyer, dragging leaves and cool air in behind them. Natasha has a giant teddy bear stuffed under her arm, Cint’s nose has a bandage over his nose that is slightly soaked through with blood, but they’re all grinning from ear to ear.

“Y’know Steve, don’t take this the wrong way, but Tony is the only guy you’ve fucked that I’ve ever liked,” Bucky calls as he hangs his and Natasha’s coats. Steve is very glad that Tony has already fallen asleep.

“Thanks?” he yells back hesitantly. Sam and Clint emerge from around the corner, nodding their agreement.

“Same. I like him way better than that Bucky guy,” Sam tosses over his shoulder as he walks up the stairs.

“Hey,” Steve and Bucky both whine. Natasha rolls her eyes before focusing on the scene she’s just walked in on. The silicone bong (supposedly a myth) is still out, for one thing, there are 5 more bottles of Corona on the table, the remains of Chinese takeout and (shamefully) a newly opened pack of cigarettes. Steve expects her to read him the riot act and deliver a lecture on the fragile state of his own health but instead she throws the cigarettes at Steve and yanks the blankets off Steve and Tony and smiles.

“Go on upstairs,” she suggests primly, “James and I are gonna hang out down here.”

Steve, understanding immediately, gathers the incriminating evidence: he folds the bong, collects the food he enjoyed without his best friend, all of Sam’s beer bottles. He runs to the kitchen and disposes of these things while Bucky is still distracted and makes it back to the couch to wake his boyfriend just as Bucky rounds the corner into the living room.

“Come on Tones,” he says, gently poking him. The older man blinks himself awake, the lines around his mouth soft and Steve wants to kiss him stupid, wants to put this down on paper to remember forever.

“Upstairs?” Tony croaks, and Steve nods, tugging him away.

Upstairs Steve shuts his door behind them and lights an incense. It’s the closest thing to romantic he has, and it would actually be nice for his room to not reek so much of paint thinner and weed. He strips out of his shirt and his boxers and throws himself back onto his bed and gazes up at Tony. Steve knows that this look does to his boyfriend and, just as expected, Tony’s eyes immediately go dark and hungry. There’s nothing sleepy left in his demeanor as he takes in the sight of Steve all laid out for him and it sends a wave of pleasure straight to Steve’s cock. He loves the way Tony looks at him, like he’s the only person in the world, like he’s Tony’s most valuable possession.

“What a lovely sight,” Tony muses, pulling his own shirt off. He moves towards the bed, his eyes never moving away from Steve’s as he inches closer and closer. Soon, he’s lying over Steve’s splayed body, his hands on either side of Steve’s head, his chest lowered until their skin is touching. His lips run across Steve’s face, going from his cheekbones to the swell of his eyebrow, down to the sensitive skin of Steve’s neck where he sucks a small bruise. “Love you like this,” he mutters into Steve’s ear, making Steve shiver.

“I love _you_,” Steve admits breathily. Tony pulls away only slightly before diving in for a kiss. His tongue sweeps across Steve’s bottom lip, delves past his teeth, licks across the planes of his mouth greedily. Steve moans into it, arching towards Tony as if he can’t get enough, letting the older man control the kiss and winding his fingers through dark curls. The kiss goes on for what feels like forever, the two of them sucking at each other’s tongues and nipping at bottom lips like high schoolers in the back seat of someone’s car.

Tony pulls away, “I love you too, baby,” he pants, his lips brushing against Steve’s as he forms his words. Steve’s half hard up against Tony’s thigh, grinding himself there in desperate need for friction. Tony, ever the generous lover, shifts so that his thigh is pressed solidly against Steve’s cock. He balances his weight on his elbows so that he can take Steve’s face between his large, square palms and look Steve rights in the eye. He can’t help it, he tilts his hips forward, squirming towards the heavy weight of his boyfriend. He’s fully hard now, reveling in Tony’s half dressed, possessive glory, getting off on the way he’s being held down by Tony’s stare. They’re breathing heavily into each other’s mouths as Steve presses himself even closer, chasing the sweet tug of Tony’s sweatpants against him.

He whines, “Daddy,” high and mewling the way he knows Tony loves and hates, and grinds up against him harder, faster. The friction does feel great, it gets him leaking a small puddle of precome into the fabric, but Tony seems unbothered by this. Instead he’s focused solely on watching Steve’s face, taking in his bright eyes and blushing cheeks as he chases his own pleasure.

“That feels good doesn’t it?” Tony husks. Steve nods, yes it does, but he wants more, he wants it to feel better. “I know baby, I know,” he soothes. Tony watches Steve thrust forward for a little while longer, taking in the sight of Steve so pink and desperate and gorgeous, before stepping away and shirking his pants. He stands in the center of the room for a moment and the two of them have a horny stare down for a few moments. Tony licks his lips and sits on the edge of the bed, motions for Steve to come over.

Attempting to be sexy, Steve contorts his body into some kind of slither as he makes his way to Tony. He wants to get his mouth around Tony’s cock, wants to bite a bruise into Tony’s chest, or something, anything. Tony just grabs his hand though, threads their fingers together, and situates Steve on his lap so that Steve is sitting on his thighs and both of their hard cocks are visible between them. Tony always leaks something fierce, so his length is thick, and wet and Steve wants it inside of him like _yesterday_. He hates waiting.

“Daddy please,” he whines, trying to speed the process along. Tony loves foreplay, he loves seeing Steve strung out on pleasure and shaking and begging, but Steve wants the main event. Patience is not a virtue Steve was born with, unfortunately.

With a quiet little _tsk_, Tony brings his hand up to Steve’s face and presses three of his fingers to the blonde’s lips, “Suck,” he instructs gently, and Steve lets the digits slip past his lips to rest on his tongue. He bobs his head upon and down, licks between Tony’s fingers, lets them press all the way to the back of his throat until he gags slightly. Tony does it again, just to listen to the noise. When he pulls his fingers free they’re slick with Steve’s saliva, which makes for pretty good lube when Tony wraps his hand around their cocks. Steve gasps at the contact, already having gone sensitive and needy while waiting for Tony to get with the program. Kissing the sound right off his lips, Tony begins stroking them, gathering the wetness from his tip and spreading it over them so that all Steve can focus on is the wet slide of them.

Tony teases, “How’s that?” lowly. His strokes are slow and precise, but his grip is tight and unforgiving. Steve thrusts into his grasp, his hands going to grip Tony’s shoulders for a little more leverage. As he does though, Tony’s other hand rises from where it was resting on Steve’s thigh and his hand goes to gently rest around Steve’s throat. The action, simple in every way but literally, drags a frantic moan out of Steve, who hurries his thrusts now. Tony gives a squeeze to his throat, cutting off his air just barely, like a warning.

“You’re so fucking gorgeous like this,” Tony moans, watching him intently, “I can’t get enough. And you love it so much, you’re so needy. I’ve barely gotta do anything to get you goin’, you’re just so _willing_, aren’t you?”

Steve nearly goes fucking cross-eyed at the words, “Yes, yes, I am,” he insists, “I need it so much Daddy, it’s so good.”

Tony starts to jerk them off faster now; one hand moves purposefully over their hard lengths, pressed together, and the other hold steadfast around Steve’s throat, watching how it makes him go pink as he gulps in air. It’s heady, giving this much over to another person, telling them they have the power to decide when you get to fucking _breathe_, but Steve likes it, loves giving it up to Tony. He comes with a plaintive wail of his boyfriend’s name, high on endorphins and affection.

*

It is a Saturday, so that means everyone in the house is gearing up to go out. Steve likes partying with his friends and always has. Bucky was sure that would change when Steve and Tony got together, was convinced that Steve would give up their dive bars and brawls for the life of posh wine clubs in the Hamptons, but Steve could never. For one thing, he hates going anywhere where he has to remove his nose ring, and for another none of those places play any good music. So of course, when the announcements rings through the house (“Dexter’s!” Bucky had screamed it at the top of his lungs from the stairs leading to the attic) Steve persuades Tony into the shower with him and they clean up for a night of sweaty grinding and drunken yelling.

They have to take two cars, which is a first. Bucky, Natasha, and Clint get in the pickup and Sam drives the lovebirds in his sensible Mazda. Tony had offered to have them driven in the Suburban but what’s life if you don’t have to worry about navigating your way home in tequila induced haze?

Dexter’s isn’t even a nice club, in fact, it kind of sucks. It’s dirty, like there’s muck caked along the floorboards and shit. It’s terribly insulated, so it probably would be freezing inside if not for the probably unlawful crush of bodies crammed into the building, and if Steve’s being honest, the bartenders aren’t very good at mixing drinks. That being said, it’s also close, cheap as hell, and always full of local talent. Most of the time, bands that are doing the who bar crawl thing are whiny and haven’t practiced enough for anyone to actually understand what they’re saying, but the bands that come through Dexter’s are always good. There’s always some punk playing, sometimes rappers too, and when Steve and Bucky had discovered the place they vowed to make it a regular hangout. Cut to ten years later and they’re still coming through all the time. As soon as they walk through the doors Steve is beelining towards the bar (Tony close behind) while Natasha leads the rest of the group to a booth.

“This is definitely your kind of place,” Tony laughs, looking around. He’s right. Steve loves it.

“Yeah. I got my first tattoo in the bathroom here.”

“You’re…kidding, right? I don’t want that to be true.”

Steve shrugs and settles onto a stool while he waits for their shots and pitcher of beer, “I am not. Craig Johnson was an apprentice at a shop and wanted to show off, so he tattooed me in the bathroom.”

“Show me,” Tony snorts.

“It’s covered,” Steve says, but he shrugs out of his jacket anyway, and raises his arm so that Tony can see the faint, practically invisible, lines of his very first tattoo. It had been a little skull. Now, it is buried beneath the lines of traditionally styled big ass compass, which had been the beginning of the larger pieces dominating the left side of Steve’s body. Over the years he had accumulated a bunch of other pieces on his arm and shoulders, going down his back as well, and he had even discussed some of them with Tony, but he had never shared the story of his first tattoo.

“It used to be…?”

“A skull.”

“Very fitting for 16-year-old, punk rocker Steve Rogers.”

This time, Steve snorts, “Most definitely,” and then the bartender is putting the drinks in front of him. Tony slides his credit card over and tells the guy to start a tab. He helps carry the drinks over to the table.

It’s a fun night, an easy night. Tony slams back a shot with the rest of the group, sips from a beer, but doesn’t drink for the rest of the night. Steve gets absolutely fucking blitzed. The band that plays definitely errs on the whinier emo side, but they’re loud and their basslines are awesome, so he and Bucky waste no time throwing themselves into the fray of it. Less than three songs in Bucky has his shirt off, they’re headbanging wildly, and have been threatened with bodily harm at least four times. It’s great. They get back to the table and do a few more shots, and when Bucky drags Nat into the crowd Steve stays back with Tony. Steve pushes himself close, grabs Tony's arm and drapes it over himself so that he can feel warm and safe and small. The older man looks more amused than anything, watching Steve's friend run about and make fools of themselves for the entire night, so Steve doesn’t bother asking if he’s ready to go.

Instead, “I’m so glad we met,” he admits. The look on Tony’s face is completely priceless, and Steve will remember it even through the blur of intoxication.

“Me too,” Tony tells him.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm sorry if it feels like there's a lot of weed smoking. i didn't smoke weed when i wrote the first one and now i do, so i'm inserting it at a rate that i think is regular lol. thanks for reading! and follow me on twitter @starkbrncsif you wanna, i just made the account!


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